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<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n\u201cWe thought you might like to come on a trip with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got work in the morning, chaps,\u201d I replied. \u201cAnyway, the pubs are closed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, if it\u2019s a drink you want, that can be arranged,\u201d said Allan, jovially, \u201cWork? We won\u2019t keep you long. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They took me to a basement drinking club on Queen Street, and we sat in the corner, me supping on Springfield bitter and they with vodka. Something had changed with them but I felt it wasn\u2019t something new.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll bet you thought you\u2019d never see either of us again,\u201d said Allan. The crowd was sparse and he talked low; I hesitated at the implication of his words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t think I had anything to do with\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Grattan again raised his finger to his lips, shaking his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course not,\u201d said Allan, jovially though not completely without tension.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou must be wondering why we\u2019re back here, though, instead of freezing in some Siberian hell-hole. Or worse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt wasn\u2019t easy,\u201d said Grattan. Or Gruminksy, as he was formerly known.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019re going on a trip,\u201d continued Allan, \u201cWe\u2019d like you to come with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTurkey.\u201d said Grattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLovely weather this time of year,\u201d Allan again. He\u2019d worked selling insurance for a bit and he was probably fairly good at it. \u201cExpense account.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t think so, chaps,\u201d I said, quaffing more deeply at my drink and looking at my wristwatch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“We’ve told people you’ll come… important people.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThing is,\u201d said Allan, tapping his Gauloise into a Guinness ash-tray, \u201cwe\u2019ve told people you\u2019ll come. They\u2019re expecting you to come with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cImportant people,\u201d said Grattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cVery important people,\u201d agreed Allan, a.k.a. Alogrin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMI6 people,\u201d said Grattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Allan raised his eyebrows at this and nodded at me. \u201cThe kind of people you don\u2019t like to let down. And, as it happens, the kind that would be interested in how you and your family kept a couple of Cossacks in hiding at the end of the war.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re welcome,\u201d I said bitterly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSorry, Gonby. Really. It\u2019s not nice, this. But it was the only way we could convince them not to send us back. Do this little thing for us and everybody gets to carry on with their own lives, quietly. It\u2019ll only be a couple of days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dennis Allan, a.k.a. Sergei Alogrin is the more amenable. In itself that\u2019s not saying much. Gruminsky stares straight at me, through me, says nothing for ten, fifteen minutes at a time. I try to sit on the same side as him when we board the train to Istanbul, but he thinks nothing of getting up and moving so he can continue the intimidation. In Paris went to different clandestine meetings while the other baby-sat me: Allan could be okay but Gruminsky went as far as showing me his pistol a couple of times. He keeps my passport \u2013 a diplomatic counterfeit they had knocked up in London \u2013 until I need it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s an unfortunate situation,\u201d admits Dennis \/ Sergei once while Clive \/ Boris is buying vodka in the dining car, \u201cbut it\u2019s not a difficult mission. The hard work\u2019s already been done: Turkey\u2019s in NATO, the Americans are decided, and Kruschev\u2019s accepting the inevitable. But there are elements \u2013 elements loyal to Malenkov \u2013 who are still trying to undo the last five years, force a new regime, break Turkey\u2019s pact with the West. Who can say whether they\u2019d get very far? But London\u2019s worried enough to send us to make sure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd when you find these agents?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe let London know who they are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd that\u2019s all. You don\u2019t\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSorry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Gruminsky slides open the compartment door, and speaks gruffly to Alogrin in Russian. The train carries on through the Romanian evening, the forests slowly inhaling the deep aroma of intrigue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1 \u25a1<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know why I expected a hotel. The house on Konuk Sk is humble, surrounded by noise and odours good and bad, if such distinctions even hold here. As in Paris and London, they take turns, one guarding me while one is in the field, but Alogrin is less garrulous now. I still have no idea why I\u2019m here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the fifth day, a Thursday, Gruminsky returns with company, and pistol-whips him in front of my eyes, before entering the makeshift interrogation room. Behind the locked door there is shouting, much cigarette smoking (the chaps have finished their French stuff and we are all now smoking dark local brands), tense silences and the occasional bang and shuffle of physical violence. After an hour, Alogrin enters, there is a gunshot. It is Gruminsky that never leaves the room. The former interrogee takes us to a black saloon car parked way down Efem Sk and gives Alogrin the keys. He heads out of town discreetly, before barrelling east towards Horasan, and a field where a hot-air balloon awaits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cY\u2019am in the Flying Squadron, ay yer?\u201d \u201cAs a passenger!\u201d I protest, \u201c’Chimdy’ Sweep deals with the flying!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDrive,\u201d says Alogrin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know how\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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